“Yes.”
“Meadow, I'm joking.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
“So was everybody else.”
The mayor's smile faded.
Meadow picked up the flour sack.
Then looked toward the wagon driver.
“How much to bring him to my farm?”
The driver, an older man named Lewis Pike, rubbed his chin.
“Five miles.”
“I know where I live.”
Lewis glanced toward Jedediah.
Then back.
“No charge.”
Mayor Abernathy said, “Now hold on.”
Lewis ignored him.
Meadow climbed onto the wagon bench.
As the wagon rolled away, nobody laughed.
Jedediah stared at her from the planks.
After half a mile, he said, “You made a mistake.”
Meadow kept her eyes on the road.
“Probably.”
“I mean taking me.”
“I know what you meant.”
“I weigh near two hundred forty pounds.”
“You look heavier.”
He frowned.
She smiled slightly.
He stared at her.
Then, despite himself, a low sound left his chest.
Not quite laughter.
But close.
That was the first time Meadow heard it.
It would not be the last.
Getting Jedediah into the house took four hours.
The wagon could not reach the cabin door because spring rains had softened the ground beside the porch.
Lewis offered to help carry him.
Jedediah refused.
“Don't want men hauling me like meat.”
Lewis looked offended.
Meadow understood.
She dismissed him with thanks.
Then stood beside the wagon studying the problem.
Jedediah watched.
“You planning to stare me inside?”
“Thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Quiet.”
She walked to the barn.
Returned with rope.
Then a pulley.
Then another.
Jedediah raised an eyebrow.
“What are you doing?”
“Not carrying you.”
“Good.”
“You'd crush me.”
His mouth twitched.
Meadow threw a rope over the oak limb extending above the wagon path.
She rigged a canvas sling beneath him.
It took several attempts because Jedediah cursed every time his hips shifted.
At one point Meadow slipped in the mud and landed hard on one knee.
Jedediah flinched.
“You hurt?”
“My pride.”
“That survives?”
“Better than most things.”
By sunset, she had dragged, lifted, cursed, adjusted, and nearly given up seven times.
Finally the sling crossed the threshold.
Meadow lowered him onto a cot near the fireplace.
Jedediah lay breathing hard.
Sweat covered his face.
Meadow leaned against the table.
Her back screamed.
Her arms shook.
Jedediah stared at the ceiling.
After a long silence, he said, “You should've left me there.”
Meadow wiped her forehead with her sleeve.
“Bullets cost money.”
He turned his head.
She continued.
“I don't waste money.”
Jedediah barked a laugh.
It startled them both.
Meadow smiled.
“Good.”
“What?”
“You still know how.”
His expression closed again.
The first weeks were ugly.
Not cruel.
Not hopeless.
Just difficult.
Jedediah hated needing anything.
Water.
Food.
Help shifting.
Help bathing.
Help getting outside.
He hated that Meadow saw his body fail to obey him.
His anger arrived sideways.
At doors.
Blankets.
Spoons.
Once at a boot he could not position correctly.